Grape! Read online

  “There’s this one kid,” I said, “he’s so bad!”

  “Is not nice, Grape.”

  “No, it’s okay, Mom. He knows he’s terrible. It’s Sherman from school. He should be in Park League.”

  “Grape, you can still play Park League. I talked to Lou’s coach, and—”

  “I know. You don’t need to keep telling me that.”

  “But Grape, is hard.”

  “I know.”

  The second day of practice was pretty much the same, except for Sherman.

  He was even more upset.

  I sat next to him on the bleachers. He was wearing the same outfit, and the price sticker was still on his basketball.

  “I really hate this!” he said. “And I hate my father for making me!”

  “Only two more days,” I said.

  “My father is a jerk-off.”

  Mrs. C, I couldn’t believe Sherman said that.

  “He’s a jerk-off jerk. What does this have to do with bar mitzvah?”

  I felt sorry for Sherman. At least during drills he could blend in. I mean, even if he shot an air ball or set a bad screen, nobody cared. Everyone was too serious about making the team.

  But then we had our first scrimmage, and things got super bad for Sherman.

  “All right,” Coach McNamera said, “shirts and skins. Donny and Nathan, you’re captains. Nathan, shirts. Donny, skins.”

  Sherman and I ended up on Donny Randall’s team!

  “All right!” the coach said, “center court! Find someone to cover and let’s jump!”

  But Sherman didn’t want to cover anyone. He just stood by the bleachers holding his new basketball.

  “Hey, you,” the coach said, “get over there! Get with it! Shirt off and center court!”

  Sherman bounced the ball once, caught it, set it down, then he took off his glasses and with his back to us he pulled his shirt over his curly hair and folded it on a bleacher bench, then he put his glasses back on and turned around, and then I understood why Sherman didn’t want to take his shirt off.

  He had a scar from under his neck all the way to his belly, and it was super thick and pink and it looked like Silly Putty.

  He joined us in the huddle, and we started scrimmage.

  Mrs. C, Sherman didn’t even know the rules. He traveled every time he had the ball, and the one time he made a shot it was into the other team’s basket.

  The thing is, this should have been the worst day of Sherman’s life.

  But we had Captain Donny Randall!

  When Sherman shot at the wrong basket again, Donny Randall called timeout and huddled the team.

  “Hey, kid, what’s your name?”

  “Sherman,” Sherman said.

  “You’re kind of new to b-ball?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Does that scar thing hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Great. So, Sherman. You see that hoop over there?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s our hoop.”

  “I understand. I just—”

  “No, it’s okay. They look the same.”

  “Indeed they do,” Sherman said.

  “So, listen, next play, I want you to stand at the free throw line over there, at our hoop.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know where the free throw line is, Sherman?”

  “Yes, that much I have understood.”

  “Great. And you, what’s your name again?”

  “Oh, me,” I said, “my name is Grape. Remember when I asked you for—”

  “Okay, Grape, when I dribble down I’m going to yell, ‘motion!’ and when I do I want you to set a back screen on the kid guarding Sherman. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes!”

  “And Sherman, when Grape sets the screen, you run down to the hoop, and I’ll drop a bounce pass to you.”

  “All right,” Sherman said.

  “And you’re going to shoot it in the hoop.”

  “I’ll miss. I am certain to miss. ”

  “That’s okay. We’ll run the same play again next time. You got that, Grape?”

  “Yes! I’ll come up from the baseline and—”

  “But before that,” Donny Randall said, “we need to get you a nickname, Sherman. A basketball name. How does ‘The Sherm’ sound?”

  I looked at Sherman and I couldn’t believe it.

  He was smiling.

  “I, well, that’s just fine. Thank you.”

  “Now, hands in, everyone. ‘Teamwork’ on three! One-two-three….”

  Mrs. C, The Sherm went 0-10, but it didn’t matter. Donny Randall high-fived him every play, and by the end of practice, The Sherm was sweating and happy, and he walked around without his shirt, with his big sweaty pink scar shining in the gym lights.

  I was happy, too. I set good screens and stole a pass and made two shots and missed three.

  On the ride home, I told my mom all about Sherman.

  “That is a very nice boy to help,” she said. “You should tell Sherman about Park League.”

  “He’s perfect for Park League, Mom! I mean, he doesn’t even know the rules.”

  “Muy bien, Grape. Just remember Dad is picking you up mañana.”

  When we got home I asked my dad to get there early so he could watch us scrimmage.

  The next day, Sherman was in his usual spot on the bleachers.

  “Hey,” he said, “check this out.”

  He turned around. On the back of his headband it said, “THE SHERM” in big black stenciled letters.

  “That’s so cool!” I said.

  “Indeed it is! And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “My father signed me up for Park League. He’s really proud of me, and I’m going to include this whole experience in my bar mitzvah speech!”

  “Cool!”

  “How about you?”

  “How about me what?”

  “Are you signing up for Park League?”

  Well, Mrs. C, this is when the trouble started.

  After roll call, Coach Sperling said we’re going right into scrimmage. No more drills. No more shootaround.

  “Same squads as yesterday! Huddle up on your baselines,” he said.

  Sherman jumped off the bleachers and ripped his shirt off.

  It was all the same, except Donny Randall wasn’t in charge of our team. Assistant Coach McNamera was. And the thing is, they even had a real referee, with a referee jersey.

  It wasn’t a scrimmage.

  It was a practice game!

  After tip-off, Donny Randall dribbled the ball and Sherman ran straight to his spot and yelled, “Grape! Back screen! Back screen!” but Donny Randall didn’t wait for my back screen. He shot and missed and the ball ricocheted off The Sherm’s head and knocked his glasses sideways and then went out of bounds.

  Next play, The Sherm was whistled for a foul.

  And then another.

  Then his man scored on a layup.

  Then we had the ball, and Donny Randall didn’t wait for a screen. He drove straight to the basket and scored.

  Mrs. C, that’s how the whole game went. I mean, Donny Randall almost never passed the ball. At least not to The Sherm, even though he was wide open.

  And not to me, either.

  No matter how hard I played, no matter how many screens I set, he wouldn’t pass the ball.

  So the next play on defense I didn’t cover my guy, and my guy shot, and I sprinted to our basket.

  My guy missed and Donny Randall got the rebound and I waved like crazy. He had no choice. I mean, I was the only player on our half of the court.

  So he passed me the ball.

  I dribbled straigh
t ahead, and when I got under the basket I hooked the ball and it clanked off the bottom of the rim and rolled out of bounds.

  “BREEEEP!”

  Coach McNamera ran onto the court.

  “Hey, kid? What the hell was that?”

  “I…cherry pick…sorry.”

  “You had a wide open layup! What do you think this is, the Harlem Globetrotters?”

  After the game we had a water break.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Coach Sperling said, “then shootaround, then we run again.”

  During shootaround Sherman stood at the top of the key with his shirt on, handing players the balls or punching them away. His headband was gone.

  And then something weird happened. Instead of going to the sidelines and taking notes, Coach Sperling walked around with his clipboard and talked to the players.

  And one of the players was Sherman.

  “Kaufman?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” Sherman said.

  “Over there,” Coach Sperling said, pointing to the first row of bleachers.

  Then Coach Sperling looked over his clipboard again.

  “Borokovich?”

  “Here, sir!”

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to where Sherman sat.

  I sat next to Sherman and watched Coach Sperling talk to Donny Randall and laugh, and I could see the light shining on Coach Sperling’s bald head, and then Coach Carter blew his whistle and called out new teams, and then Coach Sperling walked over and stood right in front of us.

  Mrs. C, it was weird seeing him so close up. His bald head was super sweaty and shiny, and his face had red blotches, and his arm hair was so thick it curled, and all I could think about as he looked at his clipboard and told me and Sherman that we were sitting out the rest of practice was how he could have so much arm hair when he was super bald.

  “You’re cut,” he said, “both of you.”

  For a couple of minutes, Sherman and I just sat there.

  Then I looked over. Sherman was crying, his face on his knees.

  “No way,” I said. “He’s not allowed to cut us yet! No way! We get three days! It’s official! I have the paper!”

  Mrs. C, Sherman was sobbing.

  “I hayyyte my father! He’s a jerk-off jerk! I hayyyte him! I hayyyte him! This has nothing to do with bar mitzvah!”

  It was pretty clear that Sherman hated his dad.

  But I hated Coach Sperling. I hated him for cutting us when we had three days of tryouts, and for cutting us during practice, and for making us sit on the bleachers for an hour while all the other kids played, and most of all I hated him for doing that to Sherman.

  Sherman’s dad got there first. He was smiling. He looked exactly like Sherman, but he had a beard.

  “So! How’d The Sherm do today?”

  Sherman looked at his dad, then walked out of the gym.

  “What’s the matter with him?” he said.

  “We got cut,” I said, “during practice.”

  “And for that he’s upset? He knew he was going to be cut. That’s why we signed him up for Park League.”

  “Yeah, but we get three days. It’s on the flyer. It’s official, and—”

  “And where’s his ball? I just bought him that brand new ball!”

  “I don’t know.”

  A few minutes passed by, and all I could do was look at Coach Sperling with his shiny head and hairy arms and clipboard.

  And then I saw my dad. He was wearing his white button-up work shirt with three architect pencils in the pocket.

  “I’m sorry I miss the scrimmage,” he said.

  I took his hand.

  Mrs. C, the weird thing is, I never held my dad’s hand anymore.

  “I have to talk to the coach,” I said, and together we walked across the half-court line to where Coach Sperling stood, writing on his clipboard.

  We stood in front of him until he noticed us.

  And then I looked up straight into his eyes and his super shiny bald head, and with my dad next to me holding my hand, I pointed at him.

  “You’re a jerk-off!” I said.

  Coach Sperling kind of staggered back and looked at my dad.

  And my dad looked at me.

  But I kept my eyes on the coach.

  “Grape!” my dad said.

  I clutched his hand tighter.

  “A jerk-off jerk!” I said again.

  On the ride home I told my dad what had happened, how we were cut and it isn’t allowed, that it’s not official, and how he cut us during practice and how we had to sit there for an hour and how Sherman cried.

  And now I was crying.

  I cried all the way home, and when I got home I went to the kitchen and told my mom what had happened and cried more, then she took off her apron and hugged me and said I can play in Park League, then she put her apron back on.

  “Is time for dinner,” she said. “Go tell Dad is time for dinner.”

  Mrs. C, my dad knew it was time for dinner. He was already in his robe and undershirt and slippers on the way to the kitchen.

  He was super ready for dinner.

  And then the phone rang.

  My mom and dad looked at each other. They waited for the answering machine.

  “Yes, hello. My name is Frank Davidson, director of the North Valley Hawks. If I could please get a call back from the parents of uh, let’s see…Grape? Grape is it? My number is….”

  My mom and dad looked at each other again.

  “Angélica,” my dad said, “you and Grape watch the TV. Y cierra la puerta.”

  “Let’s go,” my mom said. “Is Herbie the Lovebug, that funny car.”

  Herbie was going through these super steep and winding streets, and my mom said, “Grape, those streets are in San Francisco. Is where the Golden Gate Bridge is,” and she kept talking, and Herbie kept driving and my mom turned the volume higher, but we could still hear my dad, and I got a little scared.

  Mrs. C, my dad works super hard and sometimes he comes home late with his briefcase and three architect pencils in his shirt pocket and his blueprints that smell like ammonia, and sometimes I can tell he’s grumpy, but most of the time he’s nice.

  The thing is, when he gets super mad he gets kind of crazy.

  This one night I had an asthma attack and my pill didn’t help, so he drove me to the hospital, and we waited and waited and waited while I wheezed, and my dad kept asking when it was our turn until finally he screamed in Spanish and then he screamed in English and then he walked into the hallway even though he wasn’t allowed to, and I could hear him screaming the F-word and saying we have been waiting for hours and other people have been taken before us, and then they took me in right away and gave me a shot.

  That night driving home from the hospital I was a little scared of him.

  But now it was Frank Davidson’s turn to be scared of him.

  “Is in writing, do you understand what I am saying? The paper is right here, you understand what I’m saying? Is official! Let me put it this way, I don’t care what my son said to your hijo de puta coach!”

  “BEEP! BEEP!” went Herbie.

  “No! Is not enough!” my dad said.

  “BEEP! BEEP!”

  “Do you understand what the F-word I’m saying? I have the paper here!”

  “BEEP!”

  A few days later, I joined Park League.

  After practice, Coach Dennis raised his hand for a high five.

  “Good job, Grape.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maybe chill out on that fancy layup.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Or how about practice it more, and if a game’s not close, give it a try. Either we’re ahead by twenty or down by twenty.”

  “Okay.” />
  “And by the way, I heard about what happened over there with the Hawks.”

  “Well, the thing is, it was official, and my friend Sherman—”

  “Great job.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said great job.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “You got that jerk fired.”

  THE TROUBLE WITH THE FROGS

  June 8, 1976

  Mrs. C, Camp Chaparral was like school, but ninety-nine percent better.

  Every morning Lou and I would wait at the bus stop with our backpacks and hats and, just like school, a bus would pick us up, but not just like school a counselor in a bright green Camp Chaparral shirt would sit in the front seat with a clipboard and check off our names, and then, instead of talking about Bully Jim or Movie of the Week, we would sing!

  And the thing is, the songs are kind of corny, but it’s okay because this is camp! We sing “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt” and “The Circle Game” and “Rise and Shine,” and the bus fills with singing, and sometimes people in their cars wave at us and sometimes they look annoyed, but we keep singing, and then we get to the entrance, and there’s this big wooden archway with CAMP CHAPARRAL carved into it, and every time we drive through it the bus driver honks and everyone raises their hands like they’re on a rollercoaster, and then the road gets bumpy and dusty as we pass a line of super tall eucalyptus trees where the turkey vultures roost.

  At school, we get off the bus and get in line outside the classroom. At camp we get off the bus and smell the eucalyptus and the chaparral and head to the bleachers where Simon the Director raises his hand and waits for us to raise our hands and stop talking.

  Mrs. C, all he has to do is raise his hand, and everyone gets quiet!

  It’s not like school at all!

  Then come announcements. Those are a little like school. I mean, they’re boring, and they’re almost always the same, except it’s Simon saying them. Mrs. C, Simon is super enthusiastic. He wears a big sunhat and a green camp shirt, and he always has a guitar strapped around his back, and every sentence is like the most exciting and important sentence ever. He reads the camp schedule and sometimes he announces a special guest, like a ranger, but he always ends with the Camp Chaparral commandments, and he always makes the same dumb joke.